


Snapshot Symphonies

by SkylandMountain1013



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 07, XF Writing Challenge, season of secret sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 22:02:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5432378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkylandMountain1013/pseuds/SkylandMountain1013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Mulder doesn’t expect, not in the seven plus years he has known her, is that when Scully is happy- truly happy- she is a symphony.</p>
<p>Originally posted on tumblr for the XFWriting Challenge prompt, "Sound."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snapshot Symphonies

When she is angry, the world can feel it. The force of her steps reverberates in the floor underneath her. Mulder can only step back and feel the heat of her wrath.

When she is sad, the world doesn’t see, but he does. It is seen in the tiny curve of her lips, in the way she moves with just a bit less conviction.

What Mulder doesn’t expect, not in the seven plus years he has known her, is that when Scully is happy- truly happy- she is a symphony.

* * *

They’re speeding down I-44 in central Missouri, wispy clouds streaking above them and cracked pavement rumbling beneath them. She reaches over the center console to spin the radio dial.

“Is this a rule breaking day?” Years ago she had instituted a “NPR only in the car” rule- telling him that it was important that they get a glimpse of world events not filtered through the lens of the FBI. He’s always thought that it was .an affront towards his musical choices. 

She gives him a half smirk and keeps turning the dial until she lands on something to her liking. “Springsteen,” she declares. “It’s a good day for Springsteen.”

Her knuckles tap in time against the window and she starts quietly singing along with the chorus. 

She hopes he doesn’t notice. 

He grins and provides the drum fill on the steering wheel. 

* * *

“All signs point to this man being under the influence of another entity when these murders happened.” He cradles the phone against his shoulder as he fumbles for his car keys. 

“I will give you ‘Under the Influence.’ But that’s about it.”

He sighs audibly into the receiver. “I don’t know how you can ignore this evidence. It’s very clear-”

“The only evidence we have, Mulder, is that three murders occurred. Three bodies, with minimal forensic evidence at each site.” It’s occurred to him that even their arguments have taken on a musical lilt lately. Their back and forths are a melody that only make sense to the two of them. 

Her voice fades back in to his consciousness. “– and honestly, Mulder, the likelihood of Mr. Spalding being possessed by animal spirits is as high as the likelihood of you going one morning without getting toothpaste all over the sink. Now it’s Friday afternoon. The dead will stay dead for the weekend.”

He can hear her smiling. He decides against supplying proof of the many times they’ve seen the dead not stay dead. He ends the call and starts his car. 

He finds himself taking the Georgetown exit. 

* * *

They find themselves at a Jack in the Box at 2 am. The restaurant is deserted but they’ve holed themselves up in a back corner booth– old habits die hard, he thinks. 

His jacket is draped over her shoulders, the chilled midnight air proving too much for her movie premiere attire. She steals a sip of his milkshake as he dumps his fries onto the tray in front of him. 

She tries to stifle a giggle as she swirls the straw around the cup. He looks across at her and she fails, giggle turning into a full bodied laugh. 

“What?” He pops the lid off and dips a fry into the chocolate shake. 

“Look at us! Dressed to the nines, FBI credit card, and we’re sitting somewhere eating shitty tacos and fries in the middle of the night.” Each sentence is punctuated with another small snicker. 

He leans over his half of the table and lowers his voice to a stage whisper. 

“Agent Scully. Are you drunk?”

She meets him in the middle. “Not even close.” She erupts into another throaty laugh. 

Her foot is running back and forth along his calf and she smells like ice cream and Coronas and Truth be damned, he decides that he will do whatever it takes to have her continue laughing like this. 

He waves his hotel key in front of her. “Shall we?” 

She snatches it from him as they get up from the table. Their laughs echo all the way to the car. 


End file.
